


in between

by CallicoKitten



Series: Larrikin [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Fluff and Smut, Misunderstandings, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: On the morning they’re due to leave for the Exalted Council Hawke rides through the gates with Sera and Bull, wild-eyed and laughing. They’re three days later than they should be but when Harding briefs him, he learns that their mission was not without success.-au of my other fic where hawke stays with cullen, the inquisitor gets married and cullen frets
Relationships: Male Hawke/Cullen Rutherford, Sera/Female Trevelyan
Series: Larrikin [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/721848
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	in between

**Author's Note:**

> so i promised this way back when and found it 90% complete earlier this week so i figured i'd polish it a little and put it up 
> 
> basically this is an au of negative space where anders doesn't show up and hawke and cullen get their happily ever after, such as it is

**9:44 Dragon**

On the morning they’re due to leave for the Exalted Council Hawke rides through the gates with Sera and Bull, wild-eyed and laughing. They’re three days later than they should be but when Harding briefs him, he learns that their mission was not without success.

“Bull says they rode all through the night. He’ll be fine but he says we should watch out for the other two,” Harding says, a fond smile on her face. “So, at least you should be able to get some work done in the carriage. If the snoring isn’t too loud, that is.”

“I almost hope it is,” Cullen mutters. The work he’ll be doing from the carriages is less work and more Josephine’s unknowing way of torturing him. On his desk reams and reams of paper sit, neatly printed for his ease, dossiers on the key players at the Council, a history of their successes and failures in brief. He’s had them for weeks, left them unread because there was always something more pressing to attend to or at least, something less likely to give him a headache.

“Oh, it’s not all that bad,” Harding says. “Some of it’s pretty funny actually. Lady Josephine just has a particularly polite way of writing it.”

Cullen eyes the stack of files. “I’ll take your word for it.”

-

Hawke tells him he’s not tired as they clamber into the carriage but he falls asleep on Cullen’s shoulder as soon as they pass through Skyhold’s gates. Cullen doesn’t mind. They have the carriage to themselves for now, ostensibly so he can brush up on his politics without any distractions.

Things are not going well for the Inquisition. Ferelden is eyeing them with increasing suspicion, Orlais would like to see them tamed, absorbed into their existing army, an extension of their power. With no imminent threat to be dealt with, no rifts to be closed, they are becoming an inconvenience. This Council will decide their fate, for the better or for the worse.

The last time they were at Skyhold together, Hawke told him it wouldn’t be so bad if the Inquisition was disbanded. He’s started all over from scratch before. They both have. And besides, they’re getting old. Well, not old. But almost. Lived several thousand lives in a handful of years, the both of them. They deserve a break. He has a house in Kirkwall, Varric writes regularly half-jokingly begging him to ride in and charm the nobles, he could even put in a good word with Aveline, get Cullen a job with the City Guard to keep him out of trouble.

They spoke of other things too, pressed together in their room above Cullen’s office, Hawke’s voice soft with sleep, edged with annoyance as Cullen complained endlessly about Trevelyan’s teasing. Josephine’s fault really. She joked once about marrying Cullen off to secure allies and Trevelyan has run with it.

 _Marry me then_ , Hawke had grumbled, face buried in Cullen’s throat. _Take yourself off the market. What’s the big deal?_

Cullen had been so incensed he’d almost missed it, then he’d spent so long considering it Hawke fell asleep. It was probably meaningless anyway. A joke. A polite way of telling Cullen to be quiet. But that morning Cullen had rifled through his drawers for an envelope his sister sent to him years ago when he was still in Kirkwall. Their father’s wedding ring, another letter that went unanswered. He tells himself it is just for comfort when he slides it in to his breast pocket and keeps it there. Comfort and luck.

-

They are spending the night at an inn, Cullen got very little reading done in the carriage so he has sequestered himself in his room while the rest of the party drinks in the tavern. He gives up after an hour or so, descends to find Hawke and Sera sat apart from the others, speaking in lowered voices. It cannot bode well for anyone that the two of them are conspiring.

He catches Trevelyan’s eye across the crowded room. She peels away from Cassandra and Josephine. “Before you ask, no, I have no idea what they’re up to. I haven’t seen Cassandra this unsettled since the last time we were at the Winter Palace.”

Cullen hums. “We still have spies, do we not?”

Trevelyan laughs, her cheeks slightly flushed with ale. “I don’t think anyone would approve of using Inquisition resources to spy on my inner circle.”

“I think even Cassandra would consent given the circumstances,” Cullen says and she laughs again. This time both Hawke and Sera look up and whatever spell upon them is broken. They leave their table to join them, Sera knitting her fingers with Trevelyan, Hawke bumping Cullen’s shoulder, grasping gently at his wrist to pull him towards the bar.

When Cullen asks about it later Hawke only smirks, says, “Now that would be telling, Commander.” He leaves the window ajar when he joins Cullen in bed, clambers atop of him. Cullen’s hands settle on Hawke’s hips as they kiss. It is ridiculous, he tells himself each time. Ridiculous that even now everything else seems to fall away.

“I love you,” he says, when they break apart. The words are a rush, a gust of hot breath. Hawke smiles in response, reaches up to cup Cullen’s jaw and kiss him again.

The wedding band he still wears is cool against Cullen’s skin. Cullen grasps his hand to pull it away, keeps hold of it as he rolls them over. Hawke moans his assent, rolls his hips. _You said I could marry you,_ Cullen thinks, kissing along Hawke’s jaw. _Did you mean it?_

_-_

Dorian is the first to greet him when they reach the palace. The Council has commenced, Cullen is to remain nearby in case he is needed, Hawke has wondered off to find Varric. Cullen waits in the gardens, uncertain and uncomfortable and avoiding eye contact with the nobles.

Dorian approaches from behind, opens with, “Well, I see Josephine’s taste in uniforms still leaves a lot to be desired.”

He has been in Tevinter for the past few months, his visits to Skyhold getting briefer and briefer. Years ago Cullen could not imagine being friends with such a man but now there are very few others he would rather spend time with. He has missed him these last few months.

They catch up over Orlesian wine, too sweet for Cullen’s tastes but the only thing on offer. Dorian complains about Magisters, the Magisterium, the Iron Bull. He asks about Hawke. The ring in Cullen’s pocket suddenly feels very heavy.

“It’s fine,” Cullen says, knowing how evasive it sounds as he drains his cup. “Hawke’s fine.”

Dorian smirks. “It’s _fine_ , is it?”

But before he can tease Cullen further, Harding appears at his elbow. She’s slightly out of breath, fists clenching and unclenching the way they do when she’s itching for her bow. “Sorry, Commander, but you’re needed. You too, Dorian.”

-

Cassandra stands beside the eluvian with her arms folded, her jaw clenched tight. “A Qunari soldier was found on the grounds,” she says. “A trail of blood led them here.”

“The Inquisitor’s gone through,” Harding says. “She’s got Bull and Sera and Hawke with her.”

Cullen closes his eyes briefly. “I’ll have our soldiers at the ready if they are needed.” He says, when he opens them.

Beside him, Dorian sighs. “It’s always a drama with you people, isn’t it?”

It is a good few hours before they return. Evening is gathering, the shadows in the palace gardens growing steadily longer. Cullen has wandered the grounds restlessly, has snarled at several nobles and guards. He feels as though he should be doing something more but all they have so far is a body and a trail of blood and an ancient Elven artefact.

Varric comes to tell them they’ve returned, expression still taut with worry.

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen exhales.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be so quick with my gratitude, Curly,” Varric says.

-

Trevelyan and her party look dead on their feet. She gives her report grimly. They all agree that it can be no coincidence the Qunari have chosen to rear their heads now but what their end goal is, no one can say for sure. Leliana agrees they will have to adjourn the Council until this threat is dealt with but it will be tricky to hold off both Ferelden and Orlais in definitely. Sera yawns. They call it a night.

On the way to their room, Hawke leans against him heavily. Cullen wraps an arm about his shoulders, presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Hawke smells of blood and lyrium and the acrid-burning of the Fade. There is blue under his fingernails, staining his gums. Whomever they were fighting, they must have fought hard.

“Are you alright?” He asks, steering Hawke towards the bed.

Hawke nods, rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I’m fine, just tired. Bull kept running headlong into fights and I’m awful at barriers.” He kicks off his boots clumsily, sits up to shrug off jacket. Cullen leans forwards to help him.

Hawke lies back down, huffs with exhaustion.

Cullen stands up to change into his sleeping clothes. When he returns to bed, Hawke has rolled onto his side. Cullen lies down beside him, presses against his back.

“Does the Inquisitor want you to accompany her again tomorrow?”

Cullen tried to give him a coin once, years ago on the docks of Lake Calenhad, in the shadow of the Circle Tower. His coin, his lucky coin but Hawke had smiled, curled Cullen’s fingers back around the small glint of metal and said, _If it keeps you safe, I’d like you to keep it._ Added he had his own twisted sort of luck, anyway. Too much might cancel each other out and Cullen knows it’s stupid but Maker, does he wish Hawke had kept it.

“I don’t know. I assume so. She doesn’t trust Vivienne and she trusts Dorian to hold things together here more than me.”

Cullen presses a kiss to the back of his neck, pulls him closer. “Be careful.”

Hawke laughs. “Come on, Commander, you know me.”

Cullen smiles. “That’s the problem.”

Below them in the gardens, elsewhere in the palace, there is music, laughter, loud voices. It all feels very far away from them, from everything. Half the people below them have no idea what has truly gone on today. All they saw was a heretical organisation throw a tantrum and close ranks. They have no idea of the danger, of the things coming apart around them.

“What was it like when you went through the eluvian?”

Hawke is quiet for such a long time Cullen thinks he has fallen asleep. Then he shifts slightly. “It was… strange. Like the Fade but not. I don’t know. It was incredible and strange and sad.” He yawns. “Sera said she saw flowers but none of the rest of us did.”

-

In the morning, Hawke kisses him sweetly, hands curling idly through Cullen’s hair. They move against one another slowly, Hawke hisses when Cullen presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw with just the barest hint of teeth. He no longer fights or shies away when Cullen is gentle. This is all so familiar, so achingly familiar.

“Come back to me safely,” he says against Hawke’s mouth.

Hawke hums in response, moans when Cullen rolls his hips.

“Come back to me,” Cullen murmurs. “Come back to me.”

They take their breakfast in the tavern. The small space is crowded, soldiers who’ve taken the nightshift, soldiers preparing for the day’s watch, the Chargers packed around a table far too small for them, Charter and Harding. He’s surprised to see the Inquisitor there too, off in a corner with Sera. She looks exhausted, dark circles beneath her eyes, grimacing at her marked hand. Something beyond the eluvians has set it off again, it is almost as unpredictable as when she first got it.

Hawke though, seems unsurprised. He catches Sera’s eye as they walk in, smiles and winks at her.

Cullen raises an eyebrow. “Do I even want to know?”

Hawke grins at him. “Don’t worry, Commander, it’s nothing untoward. I swear.”

He keeps an eye on Sera throughout their meal, so does Dorian when he joins them a few minutes later. It makes Sera uncomfortable. She shifts in her seat, keeps cutting her gaze towards the pair angrily.

Cullen’s frown deepens. “What are you three planning?”

“Nothing,” Hawke waves him off impatiently.

Dorian clucks his tongue. “At this rate, anyway. Besides, it’s less _our_ plan and more Sera’s. If she’d ever get on with it.”

Hawke thumps Dorian on the arm as Sera leans forwards slightly, starts talking hurriedly, nervously while Trevelyan looks on in amusement. Her face splits into a wide grin when Sera’s done talking, her eyes glassy. “Yes,” she says. “ _Yes._ ” And half-vaults across the table to hug her.

Hawke whoops and Dorian claps. From the floor, beneath her girlfriend, Sera throws up her middle finger.

-

Trevelyan wants to get married before they travel back through the eluvian. Her inner-circle is assembled but for Solas and Vivienne, Mother Giselle is called for to bless their union. For an hour or so, they forget the Qunari invasion, the trouble brewing in the rest of the palace.

Cullen is very aware of the ring in his pocket as he watches Trevelyan twirl Sera around and around and around. Hawke is leaning against him, head resting against Cullen’s shoulder. He is quiet, has been quiet since breakfast. Cullen wonders if he’s thinking of his own wedding, half wants to ask but doesn’t quite know how.

When Trevelyan stops dancing, Sera swoops in to pull Hawke away in her place and Cullen sits down with her. Trevelyan is still smiling as she watches them, the corners of her mouth twitching like she can’t quite stop the joy from overflowing, like she can’t quite believe this is happening. But she looks tired too. Her skin pale, her dark eyes red-rimmed. The way she looked when they were facing Coryphaeus.

“Is this what they were planning?” she asks, dragging her gaze away from the dancers. “All those little whispered meetings they had?”

“I assume so. Or perhaps _hope_.”

She laughs, giggles really. It bubbles up from her chest. She shakes her head, looks down at the small gold ring on her finger and laughs again. “I just – ” she breaks off, looks back up at him with such light in her eyes he feels warmed. Her joy is infectious.

“I’m happy for you,” he says. “Both of you. I’m glad you found one another.”

She nods, looking back at her ring. “It’s certainly not what I expected when I joined the Inquisition. Or when I met Sera.” She makes a face. “Maker, my parents will be annoyed I didn’t invite them. They don’t exactly _approve_ of Sera but they’re happy I’m happy.”

She looks back out to where her wife is laughing, dancing with Harding now, reaches across the table to set her delicate hand atop Cullen’s. In another life, he thinks, it could have been them who exchanged vows before Mother Giselle. The both of them settling for the more acceptable end to things. They could have been happy. A neat little couple, politically advantageous. There could have been children, a life but he cannot imagine he would feel for her a fraction of the things he feels watching Hawke try to twirl Dorian around.

“So,” Trevelyan starts, smirking at him. “I imagine we’ll be doing this with you and Hawke at some point soon.”

Cullen chokes, his cheeks colour.

Trevelyan laughs at him. She’s going to say something further but her hand pulses and she winces. “Why did this have to happen now?” She half-growls. Her eyes are suddenly glassy, brow furrowed in rage. “We have to go back through that mirror.”

When they leave, Dorian settles beside Cullen, raises his glass. He is on again with Bull evidently, placed a hand on his chest and said something low and serious that made Bull nod solemnly back.

“I should have stayed in Tevinter,” he muttered. “At least there the treachery and doomsday plots are poorly disguised at best.”

-

They return again, more worn-out and edgy than before. Trevelyan’s hand is worse, her expression is grim. Josephine says the Council is at breaking point. Their soldiers are fighting with the palace servants. There may be spies among the Inquisition.

Hawke’s shirt is torn and sodden with blood.

Everything else is falling apart around them and yet, that is what Cullen’s mind chooses to fixate on.

He’s standing unaided, pale but not ashen. He cannot be badly injured but Cullen finds he cannot breathe properly until he has dragged Hawke off to check. It will take some time for Leliana’s people to translate the note the guard found so he pulls Hawke back to their rooms.

Hawke smiles at him lop-sided when Cullen presses a palm to his side.

“It’s fine. It’s not my blood. Well, mostly, anyway.”

Cullen nods. He knows. Knew. It couldn’t be Hawke’s blood. There was far too much of it. But he doesn’t remove his hand, raises his other to cradle Hawke’s jaw. “You should be more careful.”

Hawke rolls his eyes. “I _am_ careful. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here.” He puts his hands on Cullen’s shoulders to draw them closer together. “I’m fine,” he repeats and drags Cullen down to kiss him.

Cullen’s hand keeps trailing to the tear in his robes, his mind constructing scenarios in which Hawke was less lucky, in which the blood was his. In which Trevelyan came back through the mirror with wide, glassy eyes and no words.

Eventually, Hawke huffs, pushes him back. “What is wrong with you today?”

“You said I could marry you,” Cullen says, before he has fully thought it through, before he has talked himself out of it.

Hawke blinks at him.

“At Skyhold. Before we left. You said – ”

“I remember,” Hawke says. He’s frowning slightly. His tone hesitant.

Cullen feels his cheeks begin to warm. This was a mistake evidently. A stupid mistake. He knew he shouldn’t have brought it up. Shouldn’t have asked. Should have just –

But Hawke is talking to him. Asking, “Is that what you want?” 

Cullen cannot get the words out. “I – ”

“Look, Cullen, I don’t care if we’re married,” Hawke says, folding his arms. “If that’s what you want, we can get married. Although, I did promise Varric he’d have final say if I wanted to get married again. Apparently, I have bad taste in men and I keep making it his problem.” He looks away a moment, then back up at Cullen.

Cullen is staring at him. He has hardly dared imagine this moment but if he had, he doubts he would have considered _this_ as an outcome. Hawke looking up at him, arms folded tightly across his chest, fingers of his left-hand drumming against his sleeve. He looks nervous. No, not nervous. Uncertain. Slightly defensive. But there is something else. Something warmer.

As the silence grows, Hawke’s shoulders get tighter and tighter. His posture more rigid. His fingers drum faster. He’s waiting for Cullen’s response. “Fuck,” he says, eventually. “Are you going to say something or should I leave you alone with whatever is going on with you currently?”

And Cullen has no words. Has no idea what to say.

 _I don’t care if we’re married,_ Hawke had said. Like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. Something silly, trivial. And it shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t hurt this much. He shouldn’t let this ruin everything but he can’t – He can’t –

“It mattered to you before,” he says, eventually. The words come out quiet, strangled. He doesn’t mean for them to sound accusatory but he can’t help the tone that saturates them. “With him.”

For a moment, Hawke looks like he’s been struck. His mouth falls open, his eyes are wide. Then his features contort with rage. “ _Fuck you_ ,” he says and then he’s gone, storming down the palace hall.

-

It takes a great deal longer for Cullen to gather himself back together, to draw back all the messiness and ugliness, the regret, the acrid jealousy and step back out into the world. He is too late to speak to Hawke, he knew he would be but he still curls his hands into fists when Dorian tells him they’ve already left. Dorian squeezes his shoulder, tells him with a forced chuckle they’ll be fine. They’ll come back. They always do.

Cullen smiles back weakly. Says Hawke would probably laugh at him for worrying anyway. Dorian is too distracted to needle him, wanders off, his movements jerky and nervous. He’s worried for Bull. Of course he is. Cullen is selfish for thinking he’s the only one feeling this.

Josephine is more harried than he has ever seen her, snaps at him that his presence, at this point, can only make things worse. Everything makes things worse while the Inquisitor remains absent, while they keep secrets that could destroy everything, everyone.

Cullen’s feet carry him to the tavern afterwards, Varric is there as he knew he would be. His face creases with sympathy when he sees Cullen, with concern. He pushes a mug of ale towards him. Evidently, he’s been waiting.

He tuts when Cullen takes the seat beside him. “Well, you really messed up, huh, Curly?”

Cullen wraps a hand around the mug, stares down at the murky liquid. “What did he tell you?”

Varric scoffs. “Hawke doesn’t _tell_ people things, Curly. You should’ve picked up on that by now. I’m just blessed with intuition. So, what did you do?”

There’s no point in lying. No point in not telling Varric, either. He’ll find out eventually. “I asked him to marry me,” he says quietly.

Varric has leant in close to listen. At first he grins, starts saying, “Well, that’s – ” Then his face falls. “Oh. Well, I guess that went about as well as anything else lately. Did he tell you I get to approve anyone he wants to marry? I actually have that in writing somewhere. What did he say?”

“That it didn’t matter to him if we were married.”

Varric makes a tutting noise in the back of his throat. “Well, that’s hardly a _no,_ Curly and – Wait, you brought up Blondie, didn’t you?” He actually laughs at that. “Come on, you knew that wouldn’t play out well.”

Cullen huffs. Yes, he knew. Knows. Has always known. Anders has always hung over them; a spectre from the Void, ever present, unacknowledged. It’s suffocating. Stifling. A part of Hawke kept walled off from him.

Varric thumps him on the shoulder gently. “He’ll get over it. He wouldn’t have stuck around this long if he didn’t like you at least a little bit.”

Cullen is expecting more. He narrows his eyes at the dwarf, frowns.

Varric spreads his hands. “What do you want me to say? Hawke’s touchy and overdramatic and kind of a dick and it probably _doesn’t_ matter to him if you’re married but that’s not necessarily a _bad_ thing. And it’s certainly not a no.” He grins at Cullen but it falters. “But I suppose we can worry about that _after_ he comes back from Maker knows where. When we’re not about to blown up by Qunari.”

Cullen raises the mug of ale to his lips.

-

It’s late when the Inquisitor’s party finally returns. Cullen is pacing before the mirror while Cassandra attempts to calm the both of them. They have been waiting hours, the palace around them is silent. No one can agree whether they should attempt sending another party through to find them or concentrate on the threats they are already aware of.

Scout Harding has left for an update. When Cullen hears footsteps, he is certain it is her returning and turns towards the door. But Cassandra’s eyes are wide and fixed upon the eluvian behind them.

It is Sera that bursts through first, almost slips in her hurry. There are tears free-flowing on her cheeks, “A healer!” she shouts. “We need a healer.” Her arms flail wildly. “What are you still standing there for? We need a healer! Didn’t ya hear? We need one _now_! Go! Don’t just stand there!”

“You,” Cassandra barks to one of the guards. “Do as she says.”

The guard scurries off.

Sera has drawn her arms in, close to her body. Her eyes are still wide, downcast. She’s trembling. Cullen edges closer to her. “Sera, where are – ”

She doesn’t look at him. “They’re coming. They should be here – She needs a healer.” Her voice is very small, shaky.

Cullen puts a tentative hand on her shoulder, exchanges a glance with Cassandra. “Sera, what happened?”

Sera is mumbling, her gaze unfocused. “Qunari, Vidda-something, fucking elves - “ She jerks suddenly out from under Cullen’s touch and turns her gaze to him, eyes bright and furious. “What happened Commander, is that your stupid Inquisition dropped the ball again and sent us in there unprepared for that bullshit and now - “ she breaks off with something like a sob. “And now, Maeve - ”

Cullen’s chest clenches painfully but whatever Sera is going to say, whatever guilt she is about to place upon his shoulders, is interrupted by Bull, followed closely by Hawke, stumbling through the eluvian behind them. There is a moment when Cullen is going to shout at them, going to demand to know where Trevelyan is, what happened, why they would have left her behind but then he sees her, limp in Bull’s arms.

In his years as a Templar, his years with the Inquisition, he has seen his fair share of death and destruction. The loss of Haven, the chantry-explosion in Kirkwall, Ferelden’s Circle Tower, their final battle with Corypheaus. He has seen friends, colleagues, loyal men and women cut down, maimed but nothing has held him frozen like this, nothing has left him unable to react like this.

Trevelyan is pale, her lips almost colourless. She lies in Bull’s arms, limp as a rag-doll. Cullen has never seen her so still. Not when they pulled her from the Breach after the Conclave, not after she sealed that first great rift when all this began.

For a moment, he’s certain she’s dead but Hawke is at Bull’s side, pale magic glowing around his hands, around Trevelyan’s marked one. He looks at Cullen. Lost, pleading.

“ _Where_ are the fucking healers?” Bull growls.

Cullen does not know what to do.

Luckily, beside him, Cassandra is surging into action.

-

Bull is the one that tells them what happened; Sera too distracted, Hawke too exhausted. They sleep fitfully in the little side room they’re waiting in while the healers work. Cullen threads his fingers through Hawke’s grimy hair. Josephine is explaining their actions to the Council.

Trevelyan will live but they have had to remove her marked hand. It is, the healers tell them, the only way to be certain it will not kill her. Cullen knows they sealed all the rifts. He coordinated the efforts, after all but there is a lingering sense of dread – what if there is one they missed? Some unknown corner of Orlais or Ferelden where demons pour forth unchecked.

He shouldn’t be worrying about that. He should be grateful Trevelyan will live. Grateful they foiled the Qunari plot. Grateful Hawke is safe, alive. Back with him where Cullen will do everything he can to make him stay.

Bull puts his fist through an ornately decorated wall. “Fucking _Solas_.” He spits as Dorian tuts.

Solas. An ancient elf. The Dread Wolf himself. Cullen still has difficulty wrapping his head around it. He never spent much time with the mage but Trevelyan did, Trevelyan trusted him. Asked Charter to keep an eye out for him after Corypheaus fell.

Before this, before the Exalted Council there was a moment that he saw an afterwards. Peace, quiet. Hawke likes to tease to when the Inquisitor finally disbands them Cullen will drive himself mad with boredom but for a moment Cullen thought about how nice it would be to stop. To rest. See his family, maybe.

Now there is more work to do.

-

It’s late evening by the time Trevelyan awakens. He and Hawke are wondering the grounds aimlessly, watching as the shadows begin to lengthen, as the sky starts to darken.

“Do you ever think what life must be like for everyone else?” Hawke asks. “Those nobles at the Council, the everyday citizens of Orlais and Ferelden, you know, everyone who isn’t directly involved in earth-shattering events every few years. Do you think they’re happy? Blissfully unaware of it all? Is it boring? Or do you think they’re all getting slightly annoyed with us?” He shakes his head, raises the pitch of his voice in what Cullen assumes is his best impression of an Orlesian woman. “Zat Hawke and zat Cul _len_ always where the trouble ez. Perhaps they themzelvez are the cause of it, non?”

“I don’t think they’re that aware of my involvement.”

Hawke snorts at him. “Alright, now you’re just being deluded.”

They’ve come to a balcony overlooking wide green fields. Hawke leans down against it, staring out at the lone farmhouse, the tiny village beyond. Small glinting lights against the gathering gloom. Behind them, the palace is still a-murmur, servants are scurrying about lighting lamps and small scented bundles that waft over them, heady and perfumed.

Hawke still carries the scent of that place though. The place the apostate Morrigan called the Crossroads. The world between worlds. It is different to the Fade, not as sharp and acrid but it is similar. Somehow stale, stifled. A room that has been locked up for years gathering dust only to be suddenly reopened.

Cullen puts a hand on the small of Hawke’s back.

“What was it like there?”

Hawke sighs, sags a little against the balcony. “I don’t know. It was…” He rolls his left shoulder, the arm he uses to wield his staff and is quiet a long time. “It just felt wrong,” he says eventually. “Like we weren’t supposed to be there. Not _we,_ the Inquisition. _We_ the humans. Like – Like, I don’t know. Walking into a Chantry sister’s dorm stark naked. No one will _directly_ tell you to fuck off but you know you shouldn’t be there. You know you’re doing something wrong. Even the Deep Roads didn’t feel like that.”

Cullen wouldn’t know. He’s never dared set foot in the Deep Roads. Or a Chantry sister’s dorm, for that matter but he supposes he understands. That crawling feeling of dread. That knowledge you don’t belong. He felt it all the time in Kirkwall. So much magic, unspent and untapped, in the air. Meredith’s red lyrium. He shudders, attempts to disguise it by sighing.

Hawke sighs too. “Do you ever wish you could go back to Honneleath, do things differently?”

“No,” Cullen answers honestly. No matter the terrors he’s faced, the friends he’s lost, the years, the pain he’s caused, he thinks he’d still do it all again. Maybe he’d do it better this time. Speak out against Uldred, insist to Gregor they be better prepared, stand against Meredith far sooner, but he would do it all again rather than hide his whole life.

Hawke smiles fondly over his shoulder. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Do you?”

Hawke nods. “If I hadn’t been so rudely interrupted by the Darkspawn I’d’ve probably spent my whole life there. Maybe not in Lothering. Denerim, maybe. Gwaren, Aramanthine,” he smiles wistfully. “There was a boy in Denerim, much more stable than any of my more recent conquests. Maybe I would have joined the Collective. Bethany and Carver would’ve – ” His voice gets tight like it always does when he speaks of his family. Cullen leans in closer to him. “Well, Carver probably would’ve still been a tit. Bethany would have been happy. Maybe she’d have found herself a nice boy to settle down with or gone off and had adventures of her own.”

He breathes out, head bowed. Cullen rubs small circles into his back. Maker, he’s still so bad at this so he says, “It might not have necessarily been better.”

And Hawke laughs. “I don’t really see how it could have played out _worse_ but I suppose you’re right. I suppose Ser Bryant might’ve gotten his shit together and turned me over to the Circle. Then we could have had the sort of elicit affair I know you secretly dream of. More likely, they would have just made me tranquil.”

 _I wouldn’t have let them,_ Cullen thinks automatically but of course, he would have. Hawke would have been just another apostate to him. Irving would have liked him though. He could have probably stayed Gregor’s hand.

They’re interrupted then by a scout coming to tell them Trevelyan is awake. That she and Josephine want to speak to them all.

-

Trevelyan intends to end the Exalted Council tomorrow, to march in and explain that the Inquisition is still needed. That for as long as they have a purpose they will remain. Then they are to return to Skyhold, decide upon their next steps. Tevinter. Not somewhere he ever thought he’d visit.

Before they left Trevelyan asked them all to wait, told them that none of them were obliged to accompany her if they did not wish to. Cullen remembers blinking, perplexed. He had never even considered that this would be a potential end if he wished it. Others have left, yes. Thom to the Wardens, Varric to Kirkwall but always with the promise that they will return at a moments notice.

He could stop, he supposes. He could, but –

As they walk back to the room Hawke is quiet, subdued. Varric wants him to return to Kirkwall, Cullen heard the conversation. Varric on the verge of pleading, _don’t you think you’ve given the world enough of you? Don’t you think you deserve to put your feet up for a while?_

“You could go if you wanted,” Cullen says and Hawke looks surprised before he frowns. They’ve reached the room now, Cullen pushes the door open, holds it as Hawke enters before him. He has his back to Cullen as he crosses to the bed and flops down on it. Cullen shuts the door, finds he’s not quite certain how to proceed. “I said – ” he begins, but Hawke cuts him off, a soft sort of smile on his face.

“I don’t want to go back. I mean, maybe one day. Varric’s being insufferable about it and Aveline would _definitely_ prefer it if I was under her watchful gaze again but everyone else – It just wouldn’t be the same.” He rolls onto his front, props his head up with a hand and peers up at Cullen. “Why? Do _you_ want to go back?”

Cullen shakes his head. “If I ever see the Gallows again it’ll be too soon.” Hawke looks slightly disappointed so he hurriedly adds, “I mean, that is – If _you_ wanted to I’d – ”

Hawke smiles at him, sits back, invitingly. “I _do_ have a very big house, Commander. In the _nice_ part of town.”

Cullen shrugs his jacket off and crosses to him, perches on the edge of the bed so he can lean over Hawke. “I’m aware.”

Hawke leans up to kiss him, tugs Cullen down on top of him. They slot together easily, so easily. Cullen kisses until they’re both breathless, panting. Hawke’s eyes stay shut for a long moment when they break apart and Cullen brushes a thumb across the freckles he used to hide behind make-up and warpaint.

Maker, he’s never wanted anyone more but then Hawke opens his eyes, says, “So, we should probably talk about earlier.”

Cullen almost reflexively moves away from him. Sits up, shifts to perch on the edge of the bed.

“Andraste’s arse, Cullen,” Hawke laughs. “You’d think I just announced my intentions to join the Venatori. Or take Isabela up on her standing offer of employment.” He moves behind Cullen, leans against him.

“I thought – ” Cullen says, his mouth dry. He’s not sure what he thought. Only that this wouldn’t be good. That he’d ruined things.

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Hawke says, tugging Cullen back down to lie with him. He takes Cullen’s hand, interlaces their fingers. “I wanted you to know that it wasn’t _marriage_ that mattered to me with Anders. Maker, he could have come and said he wanted us to turn ourselves in to Meredith together and I’d’ve been over the moons. It was just that I thought he was choosing _me._ After everything. He was finally choosing _me._ I’ve just never had to worry about that with you.”

Cullen tilts his head to meet Hawke’s gaze. His brow is slightly furrowed, his eyes narrowed as he watches Cullen closely, waiting for his reaction. Cullen feels a fool. A spoilt child throwing a fit. He draws their intwined hands up to press a kiss to Hawke’s.

Hawke breathes out, smiles with relief. “Good, now that’s over we can get back to celebrating my continued existence, right?”

-

When they’re done, Hawke lies heavily against him. “If we get married, I’m taking your last name,” he says, his voice sleep-soft. “Larrikin Rutherford. People might stop recognising me then.”

Cullen’s chest feels like it might burst. “Everyone calls you Hawke anyway.”

“Only when they’re cross. Everyone’s usually cross.” He shifts, curls closer. “Your sisters will want to be there, you know and your brother. And Varric, Isabela, Sebastian – ”

Cullen snorts. It’s possibly the one most baffling thing about Hawke; his somehow enduring friendship with Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. “ _Sebastian_ ,” Cullen repeats.

Hawke laughs too, a low rumble against Cullen’s chest. “Oh, he’ll be _thrilled_ that you’re finally making an honest man out of me. He thinks you’re a ‘thoroughly decent man.’”

“More decent than your attempt at a Starkhaven accent, at any rate.”

“I’d like to hear you do better.”

“You’ll be waiting sometime yet, then.”

Hawke yawns. “Well, we do have an ancient Elvhen God to take down. I suppose I have the time.”


End file.
